“We think this group should be concerned that the Qatar Commercial Bank is a detriment to their goal of bringing about democracy. They should cause as much damage as possible to the main bank.”
“I will arrange it,” Tuesday promised.
The Chairman ended the call and then speed dialed Alicia Hampstead.
“May.”
“We have some actions to take.”
“Right away?”
“Within the next couple of days, I should think.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“First, we want to lodge $200,000 in the blind account in Riyadh for pickup by our agent Tuesday. Second, we want to go short on a million dollars US in the stock of the Qatar Commercial Bank. Third, you should urge Jeffrey to donate a million dollars to the Red Crescent Society of Qatar.”
“Consider it done,” May told him.
He would. He could always rely on Alicia.
*
Conrad Sherry arrived in San Francisco in mid-afternoon, but he didn’t call in until he had rented a car and driven into the city to check into the Hilton. There would be nothing for him to do until after nightfall anyway.
After he got her on the line and told her where he was, May said, “Be at the No Name Bar in Sausalito at one a.m. You’ll meet December there. You don’t know him, but he’s five foot seven inches tall, medium build, dark blond hair, hazel eyes. He’ll be wearing a dark blue windbreaker. You’ll work together.”
She gave him Malone’s address. He already knew what Malone looked like.
“May, I can handle this myself.”
Sherry didn’t want to split the fee.
She read his mind. “You’ll get full payment. Be aware that the target is extremely dangerous.”
“You told me that before.”
“I’m telling you again now. Meet December and the two of you take care of the assignment. Do not allow yourselves to be memorable. Call me when it’s finished.”
She hung up on him.
Well, hell, another few hours and he could head back to Aruba.
A hundred thousand richer.
Better than the Army.
Chapter Nine – Tuesday, June 18
Malone wasn’t even asleep when the beep sounded. He was stretched out in his chair with his shoes off and his feet resting on the ottoman.
He glanced at the clock on the desk. The readout was steady at 2:21 a.m.
Just about right, he thought.
On the upper right quadrant of the monitor, the camera from under the eave of the northeast corner of the house caught the man moving slowly along the shrubbery at the north side of the lot. He was dressed in dark clothing, and he hesitated frequently, listening, and then moved on straight ahead. Only the moonlight from a quarter-moon lit the scene, but it was bright enough to capture the face made pale in the light and the ungloved hands. The camera angle from above foreshortened the image, but Oak thought he was about his own height, but much heftier. Probably had about a hundred pound advantage over Malone. There didn’t appear to be anything in his hands, but the hands were large, didn’t seem to fit the rest of him.
These hands are the hands of a. . . .
Johnny Cash.
No Labrador retriever tonight.
Malone picked up his cell phone from the side table and hit the speed dial for Galway’s phone. It would vibrate under her pillow.
He rose from the chair, pulling the Kimber from his pocket.
The monitor showed the visitor moving away from the shrubs toward the gate. He was headed for the backyard and the sliding glass doors. As expected.
Malone slipped out of the office and padded on his stocking feet to the back of the great room. When he reached the door, he slipped the latch up and slid the door to the left. WD-40 did wonders for anti-squeak.
Waited.
He couldn’t hear the man moving, but after counting to six, he took a peek around the edge of the jamb with both his eyes and his semiautomatic.
Just a shadow of a man moving slowly toward him. Big damned shadow. Arms hanging at his sides.
Malone stepped outside, bringing the Kimber to bear.
“This .45 is going to take your head off.” He said it quietly.
The shadow stopped moving.
“Uh, hey man!”
“On your knees. Now!”
‘Hey, look guy! I must be at the wrong house.”
“Got that right. On your knees!”
“Wait a minute!”
Malone fired one round. At the guy’s feet, where it whanged and ricocheted away off the flagstone.
The echo of the shot hadn’t died away by the time the man was on his knees.
“Now onto your stomach.”
That instruction didn’t require debate. He went right down. Malone moved to where he lay, circling around behind him, verified that his hands were empty, and then dropped a knee into the middle of his back.
“Oomph!”
Oak reached in his back pocket for the plastic ties and thought he’d use two of them on the guy’s wrists. He looked to be strong as an ox.
“Get your arms back.”
With his left hand, he pulled the man’s left arm back.
And felt the cool muzzle jabbed into the back of his neck.
“Lose the gun,” the second man said.
Malone dropped the Kimber on the flagstone.
“Say a quick prayer. Your last one.”
BLAM!
The bullet caught the second man in the left eye, and he spun around as he dropped to the flagstones with the sound of meat hitting a counter. Droplets of blood scattered in the air after him.
The big man bucked hard, kicking his back upward, rolling to the right, and Malone pitched away, falling on his right side. He swept his right hand around, searching for his pistol as the big man scrambled to his feet, crouching low and running for the corner of the house.
Bobbi fired another shot, but low so it would plow ground and not the house next door, and then he was around the corner.
Malone found the Kimber, got his feet under him, and paused to check the carotid artery and make sure the second man was dead.
He was.
Oak took off after the big man, around the house, through the open gate, and down the driveway, looking left and right, cussing to himself because he was only wearing socks and the occasional pebble bit into the sole of his foot.
Left.
For his size, the man could move. Credit having shoes. He rounded the curve up the street.
Malone didn’t want to try a shot, not with all of the houses around. He pounded down the asphalt.
Came around the curve.
Saw the dark sedan squealing its tires as it spurted away, burning rubber, lights off. No way to read a license plate. Import, Toyota or Honda, maybe. Hyundai? Hell, who knew anymore?
“Damn it.”
Malone walked back, limping because he’d stepped on some rock large as a boulder in his pursuit.
Abby and Andrea were standing fearfully on their front porch, Abby with her arms wrapped around her mother’s waist.
Bobbi emerged into the street from around a hackberry. She was in her jeans and Washington Redskins T-shirt, and he supposed the Glock was tucked into her waistband.
“Oak!” Andy called. “Are you all right?”
It was going to be difficult to pass this one off, what with a dead man on his patio.
‘Hi, Andy, Abby. It’s going to be all right.”
“Are you sure? Were those gunshots?”
“They were. Here, let me introduce Bobbi Galway.”
He introduced his neighbors to Bobbi, noting a few other lights coming on at other houses. Bobbi appeared just a bit shaken. Well, maybe a lot shaken.
“What we had, I think, is a couple burglars, Andy. One of them got away. I’m going to call the police now, but you and Abby should go back to bed. You’ve got work tomorrow.”
Both of his neighbors were scrutinizing Bobbi.
Where in hell did she come from? And why wasn’t she wearing a bra?
He wasn’t going to explain it now, but said good night, and turned Bobbi around with a touch on her shoulder. It was trembling.
Back on the patio, she stopped, spun around, and looked up at him.
“I killed a man.”
“Yes, and I can’t thank you enough. You saved my life. You were wonderful!”
“Oh, my God!”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She still trembled, and he thought she was crying, but softly and quietly. He held her until the shaking died down. She felt awfully damned good. Some fragrant aroma issued from her hair, like smelling daylight.
He didn’t know what to say, but murmured reassuring words into her ear.
*
“May.” She had to clear her throat, needed water.
It was the middle of the night, well almost 6:00 in the morning.
“Bad news,” November told her.
“What?”
“The guy you stuck me with? He blew it.”
“What? How? You didn’t get Malone?”
“Shit! This guy December was making all kinds of noise, alerted the target. And the target had a buddy with him you didn’t mention, both armed. The guy, December, he’s dead.”
“One more time,” she said. “Did you get Malone?”
“No, hell no. He was prepared, waiting. Hell, I had him down and about done for when the second guy showed up, shooting.”
“I told you he was dangerous.”
“What now?”
“Go back to your hotel and stay there until I call you.”
Alicia clicked off the phone and settled back in her bed.
Now what? The quality of help was just not what it used to be.
She didn’t relish reporting this setback. If she was to remain in charge, she needed continual successes.
*
This homicide detective’s name was Amber Chu. She was a very pretty Asian woman in her early forties. Black hair cropped short at her jawline. Smooth clear face, piercing dark eyes, kind of accusatory. Malone thought she was experienced and knowledgeable. Also skeptical as hell. The looks she gave him said she was having a hell of a time believing anything he said. Working for his side though were the video recordings from the surveillance cameras.
She sat in his desk chair while he sat on the ottoman. He had donned his shoes, Reeboks. Chu kept eyeing the views on the monitor, now mostly filled with investigators and forensics techs surrounding the house. The street out front was clogged with official cars and vans. One van had already left with the body.
“Please call Detective Ford at the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police,” he suggested. He dug in his wallet and found Ford’s business card.
Chu looked it over, and then said, “I’ll call him. You have no idea why these men would attack you?”
He’d already explained his international investigations angle. “Nothing specific that I can think of, Detective.”
Her partner, a younger guy named Martinez, was questioning Galway in the living room. Malone was worried about her. He didn’t want her to give up the back story, the three names, but more important was her state of mind. This had to be traumatic as hell.
“You can imagine,” Chu said, “that I would wonder about this attack, given that a current and a former CIA agent are involved.”
It wasn’t as if he could declare national security as an excuse.
“Also that you were both armed.”
The State of California didn’t like that for its citizens. Conversely, the State didn’t have much control over criminals who armed themselves with impunity and didn’t bother much with submitting to background checks.
Naturally, they had confiscated Oak’s pistols, the Glock because it had killed the second man, and the Kimber because it had shot a flagstone. Damned guns, all with minds of their own. He was running through firearms rather quickly of late.
He had already explained his and Bobbi’s nine-year friendship and the fact that, after the attempt on him in Washington, he had thought it best to be prepared with a handgun or two. He just shrugged.
“And you’ve never met this Henry Kincaid before?”
“From Seattle, you said. No, never. I’d recommend that you run his fingerprints quickly because I suspect that’s an alias.”
“Why is that, Mr. Malone?”
“Because the guy who tried to kill me in Washington was using an alias. Under his real name, he had Special Forces training.”
She made a note. Malone wondered if he’d given up something that Detective Ford didn’t yet know since Bobbi had learned that alias tidbit from her FBI friend Salisbury. Oak doubted he given away any secrets. He’d read Ford as a man who paid attention to detail and would already have that info.
“The first man, again.”
Did she want him to come up with a different story or description? This was the third time.
“My height, six-three or six-four, at least 250 pounds, large hands, bad acne pocked face, dark hair. The light wasn’t good enough for better hair or eye color. Strong SOB. You saw him on the video replay.”
“You have a great deal of home protection.”
“These days, it seems like everyone does,” Malone said. “Given the nature of my business, it seems prudent.”
“And the nature of your business, again?”
“Like I said, I essentially do criminal investigations overseas where jurisdictions might be confused. Generally, I turn suspects into local law enforcement agencies.”
“After recovering supposedly stolen property?”
The question confirmed Oak’s evaluation of her intelligence.
“Occasionally that happens,” he admitted.
It was 9:30 before the cops all disappeared, taking their crime scene tape with them. Malone called a cleanup service to come and deal with the blood on the flagstones. Bobbi called her supervisor, Levi Amsterdam, to make her report. He was at lunch.
Oak raided his arsenal and came up with a Sig Sauer .40 and a Bersa .380.
Bobbi said, “I don’t think I want it.”
“It was useful last time. You saved my life, Bobbi. I was stupid enough to not check for a backup man.”
There had only been Dean Mal on his own in Washington, and that may have colored Malone’s thinking. It was an error he couldn’t afford to make twice.
“I shouldn’t have come out here,” Galway said, but she took the .380.
“I’m damned glad you did.”
“He won’t be back, will he?” she asked.
“Don’t think so. He’d be wary of another trap, and if he has access to the information, he’ll know that at least a partial description has been circulated among law enforcement. I think he’ll have to lie low or try to get out of the area.”
Bobbi was very subdued, and rightfully so. She didn’t want to talk about last night, at least right then.
They were having bowls of oatmeal when Amsterdam called back and Malone got to hear one side of the conversation.
She gave him the gist of it in about two minutes. Very objective report, just the facts. She was practiced at making reports.
“No, Levi, I’m quite all right, and no, I haven’t been charged with anything. They’re calling it self-defense. The cops have surveillance footage of the whole incident.”
Visual, but no audio.
Long pause while the boss spoke.
“I’m visiting Malone. He was Bob’s best friend, you know.”
Another long pause while the boss evaluated.
“Levi, since when do you decide who my friends are?”
Another longer pause while the boss lectured.
“Fuck you, Levi. Check your e-mail. You’ll have my resignation in about ten minutes.”
Galway almost wrecked her cell phone, punching the off button.
Malone thought it prudent to not say anything.
Bobbi said, “Is that job still
open?”
*
“A million dollars, you think?” Paxton asked.
“That would be my best estimate, Jeffrey,” Alicia told him. “That’s based on my analysis of our other projects in the region and the level of success we’ve shown.”
“To the Red Crescent Society of Qatar.”
“They would be so appreciative of the donation that their influential leaders would get right out and help your consultant lobbyists sway opinion in the right direction. After all, the Society craves peace as much as we do.”
Paxton leaned back in the chair and thought about it for a few minutes. Still not looking her over, staying focused on her face. Then he said, “It’s about mid-year. What have we spent so far?”
‘On donations? About twelve million. Less than fifty percent of the budget.”
“Let’s go with it, Alicia.”
Paxton knew that the Red Crescent Society would only receive half of the million dollars, and that’s the number he would use in instructing his consultants. He knew that the books of the Institute would show a donation of a million dollars to the Society, but that half of that amount went into another account utilized for greasing some palms that needed greasing. He never asked Alicia how that was done. It was better not to know.
After he left her office, Hampstead turned to her computer and made the transfer, half of the amount going into an account number she had already located for the Red Crescent Society, and half of it sliding down into another account. That took care of the ground floor of the digital house she mentally pictured.
Then she went to the basement.
Underlying the financial structure of the Institute for International Stability which was utterly transparent for the accountants and auditors was a dungeon of her own creation. It had rooms stuffed to the ceilings with data she utilized frequently. It had rooms full of account numbers, each with balances except currently for Tracy Dinmore. His balance was zero, and Alicia was unhappy that she hadn’t yet been able to discover the path taken by nearly seven million dollars.
Moving quickly to the receiving account for that $500,000 from the Institute, an account which happened to be located in George Town, Grand Cayman Island, she quickly distributed the funds to other accounts. Two hundred thousand went to the Chair’s account and a hundred thousand each to the Vice-Chair’s and the Treasurer’s accounts. Normally, the balance of $100,000 would be split between Dinmore and herself. Since Dinmore was no longer a factor, she placed the entire balance in her own account. Less the bank’s transaction fees, of course.
Solid Oak Page 10
